Lamaze
by cloudlessclimbs
Summary: Missing scenes during False Prophet. Some cute-ish Violate fluff as two teenagers give Lamaze for a try-and fail.


"I thought you were taking classes with your mom," Tate asks, looking at the brochure for a local Lamaze class the same way he does when he's trying to figure out why people online ask him about American Sign Language: confused. (Although, Violet explains over and over again that it's _'age, sex, location,' _but the baffled ghost continues to forget.) He glances at her swollen belly, then at the pamphlets—rinse, repeat—before quirking an eyebrow at the DVD case Violet holds. "What's that?" She hasn't really explained in detail what a DVD is, even if it isn't too different than a Laser Disc. They had those in his day, right? "It's basically a Lamaze class on DVD. I kinda thought I can do it here, with you, than embarrass my mom being her partner when I can't even drive yet."

There's also the case her mother is at a Psychiatric Hospital, but even if she wasn't Violet would rather have Tate there than a mother who isn't too happy with the _"situation" _to begin with.

Violet, with Tate's help, slowly lowered herself onto the floor in front of the small TV in the living room. She's pretty sure the strain of sitting down caused her to let one rip, but she honestly stopped giving a damn when it happened. Tate doesn't care. He tells her that he loves her regardless if she's bloated, gassy, cranky, and sometimes cries at overactive bladder commercials because the grandfather couldn't watch his grandson play basketball because he had to pee; like now, he places butterfly kisses on her shoulder, digging his fingers into her lower back, massaging as the screen flashes towards the instructional video. She's in-between his legs, back against his chest, bent knees and legs parted. "Did you know that sometimes girls poop when they're giving birth?" Violet asks during her deep breathing. "I wonder if you pee, too. I mean what if you pee and your baby just flies out covered in not only blood, but pee, too?"

"You've thought way too much about this."

Violet gives a tiny shrug. "I'm the one that'll have to go through it."

"True."

The next day the dubious teenagers try to make use of the Yoga ball, something about Violet needing to control her contractions and, when the time comes, relax and let her body do the work for her. Besides nearly falling off the Yoga ball, neither of them saw the point to it. "Bullshit." She murmurs, kicking the inflatable ball begrudgingly. "Who would be dumb enough to give birth on a ball, anyway? It's like one of those crazy actors that name their kids after fruit."

Violet figures it'll be like taking a dump, anyway, but doesn't speak these thoughts out loud. She's just pushing something out of her, right? It isn't that big of deal.

"_Oh my God! Holy shit, this is gross!" _

Then she sees a birthing video, a real life one with a camera that abuses the zoom in option, and Violet thinks she's scarred for life.

"This is like, I don't know, better than Nightmare on Elm Street!" Tate chirps, "There's so much blo—oh my God, look at the head! It's like peeking out!"

Tate, however, is having the time of his life. (It takes all she has not to punch him in the face when he begins to play "peek-a-boo" with the crowning child on the television screen.) "I didn't know that came out after the baby did!" Because, apparently, any Health class he may-or-may-not have attended in High School is lost on him for the past seventeen years.

They switch one afternoon: he's the mother and she's the coach. It doesn't work out too well since neither of them can take it seriously; when Tate starts to act like he's having contractions, she keeps losing time on the stop watch she has from doubling over in laughter.

Violet's too tired on some days to leave the couch, so they watch as her back is against his chest, laying on him, and his hands caress her expanding stomach lovingly. He feels a kick—"Make her do it again!—and another, and another, and until the little girl seems appeased using her mother's insides as her personal punching bag, Violet has to deal with Tate's childlike fascination. He almost pouts when she stops. "Is she tired? Do you think she's hurt or something?"

"I think she's grown bored with me being her personal punching bag."

"It's safe to give birth at home, you know," he says after what seems like an hour. Violet opens her eyes, realizing she must've dozed off, and cranes her neck to get a better look at him. "I read up on it; as long as you have a really good midwife, it isn't that bad. It's your decision, though."

Violet shakes her head. "I want it, too. I think my dad, at least, will give in." Violet doesn't touch on his still strong belief that they'll sell the place; Violet doesn't believe they'll be successful, but she's worried they'll still separate the two regardless. _Shitholes. _"I want you there, you know, being a kick ass birthing coach."

"I am pretty solid when it comes to keeping time," he boasts playfully, brushing a kiss on the crown of her head. "What should we name her?"

Without any hesitation at all, Violet pipes up: "Adelaide."


End file.
